


whatever comes next

by Morimaitar



Series: to save a life [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Blackmail, Breathplay, Creepy Roman Sionis, Daddy Kink, Deal with a Devil, Depression, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dirty Talk, Dissociation, Extremely Dubious Consent, Gaslighting, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt No Comfort, Light Bondage, M/M, Manipulation, Nightwing (1996) #110, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath, Romin Week 2021, Rough Sex, Self-Harm, Slapping, Unhappy Ending, Victim Blaming, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:00:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29968128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morimaitar/pseuds/Morimaitar
Summary: Dick doesn't mind sleeping with Roman.At least, that is what he tells himself.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Roman Sionis
Series: to save a life [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2208822
Comments: 10
Kudos: 39
Collections: Romin Week 2021





	whatever comes next

**Author's Note:**

  * For [withthekeyisking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/gifts).



> Roman/Robin Week Day 1: Villains Win AU 
> 
> A very happy birthday to my dear friend Q! Love you lots, buddy ol' pal.
> 
> While this is a sequel to [until the blame becomes too heavy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28249890), it can be read as a stand-alone fic. I fudged the timeline of the original run a little bit, extending Dick's investigation of Blüdhaven for Drama's sake. Instead of a few days between Nightwing #109 and #110, there is now around a month. Plenty of time for Roman to push Dick around :-)

It has been a month, and it doesn’t hurt anymore. Dick is numb to everything: the sharp edge of a knife along his skin, the filthy words pouring into his ear, the raw, throbbing ache between his legs. No—not _his_ skin, not _his_ ear, not _his_ legs. These things aren’t happening to him at all. He floats above the scene, watching without care or pity or distress. All he knows is a violent, consuming apathy. 

Above him, beneath him, Roman’s breath comes in harsh bursts. The doll that looks like Dick twitches and moans and grasps at Roman’s thighs because it knows that’s what Roman wants. It knows that’s what will make it end. 

“Daddy, _please_ ,” it whispers. Sobs. There are tears in its eyes, hot and stinging. The doll pretends they’re tears of wanton pleasure but everyone knows better. Dick wonders why it tries at all. 

Roman’s grin is wicked as he thrusts harder, faster. His fingers curl into the doll’s bare thighs, leaving splashes of purple that stand stark against the red lashes from his belt. In his shadow the doll is spread open over the conference table, face up, with its lips parted and its eyes closed. Roman reaches down and hooks a gloved finger into its mouth and yanks it open into the mockery of a smile. For a second Dick thinks he might feel something—shame, regret, pleasure—but then he blinks and the numbness returns. 

“Such a good boy, Richard,” Roman coos. “Do you like the way daddy makes you feel?”

The doll sobs around his finger, nodding frantically. It really is a whore. 

Roman smirks as he withdraws from the doll’s mouth and brings his hand, slick with saliva, to its aching cock. He strokes it roughly, almost cruelly, timing each movement with the hard snap of his hips. “Good boy,” he grunts. “So. Fucking. Good.”

Dick doesn’t feel good. He doesn’t feel anything at all. But the doll does. It writhes on top of the desk, gasping and moaning and sobbing, reeling in the searing heat of Roman’s cock and hand. The shallow cuts on its chest that sting in the cool air of the conference room. The raw skin of its thighs burns with renewed vigor. It’s been forty-five minutes since Roman stripped it bare and whipped it with his belt until it screamed. 

Oh, how time flies.

Another thirty seconds, and they come. The doll is first, spilling over it’s bare, bloodied stomach with little more than a pained whimper. Then Roman slams into it once more and comes with a bestial growl. He isn’t wearing a condom. He never wears a condom.

Dick watches passively as Roman catches his breath and adjusts his tie, as if there isn’t blood on his lapel, as if he isn’t still buried inside the doll. He wonders how long it will take for him to wake up and get back to work. Tommy probably—

 _When you’re ready to come home,_ Tommy said, _you just show up day or night._

His gut twists. It’s the first real feeling he’s had in over two hours, and the dominos begin to fall. Dick is heavy. Dick is tired. Dick is aching and scared and sticky and humiliated and sore and distressed and _the shame and the shame and the shame…_

Without warning Roman grabs Dick roughly by the face, forces him to meet his eyes. Dick blinks away the tears and swallows, tasting leather on his tongue. He tries to leave the shell of his body but he’s stuck. Everything is painfully real. 

“Tell me that you love this,” Roman says conversationally. A test.

Dick’s face burns and he wishes to disappear, to stop existing, to never have existed in the first place. “I love this,” he mutters.

Smirking, Roman lets go of Dick’s face to drag a finger gently, almost lovingly, over his lips. He’s still inside him. Why is he still inside him? Why can’t he let Dick go?

“You really are a _delightful_ boy, Richard,” he says. “I do enjoy these trysts of ours.”

 _Trysts._ The word lodges itself in the back of Dick’s throat. As if any of this has been—

It’s not rape, Dick reminds himself. Not rape, because this was his choice, this has always been his choice. Roman texts him and Dick _chooses_ to come, _chooses_ to let Roman cut him and fuck him and stick a gun down his throat. He is in control the whole time. Dick would say something if he wasn’t.

Roman’s hand lingers on Dick’s cheek. Then he pats it twice in quick succession—a disgustingly paternal gesture—and, at last, slips out of Dick and walks away. 

Dick lies still, hating the chill that settles beneath his skin. It only serves to accentuate his stinging chest and thighs, the burning sensation between his legs. He fixates on the glass light fixture above the conference table, a cluster of pendant lights that threaten to fall like rain onto his face. Vaguely he’s aware of the sound of dress shoes over tile, a zipper, a sigh. 

A gloved hand settles on his bare thigh and squeezes. “Are you alright, Richard?” Roman asks, his voice disgustingly sweet. He’s dressed again, shirt tucked in and belt tight around his waist. There’s a fleck of blood on the buckle. “Tell me what you’re thinking.” 

“I’m fine,” Dick replies. “Just tired.”

Roman’s lips twitch into a smile. “I’m sure you are,” he purrs. His eyes travel down Dick’s body, lingering on his swollen lips, his heaving, bloodied chest. “Look at you. If only your Tommy could see you like this.”

Dick flinches and pretends he didn’t. _Whore. Slut. Failure._

“Tell me. Did _Tommy_ know how much of a greedy cockslut you are? No?” Roman’s eyes flash with something wicked. “I imagine not. How could anyone ever want a weak little toy like you.” 

Dick _is_ weak. Weak for letting Blockbuster die. Weak for Mirage. Weak for Catalina. Weak for Slade and Babs and Kori and Bruce and Jason and _he’s stupid fucking weak._

His vision blurs. 

“Oh dear. Hit a nerve, did I?” Roman scoffs, rolling his eyes as he adjusts the silver cufflinks on his jacket. “There’s no need to be upset, Richard. Be a good boy and get a hold of yourself.”

Is he upset? There are tears in his eyes but Dick’s chest is empty. His head is empty. When he looks at Roman he sees a man, and when he looks at himself he sees a dirty, disgusting shell. 

A knot forms in Dick’s throat. Not for the first time, or the fifth, the thought of Tommy seeing him like this—flushed and spent, the very picture of debauchery—fills him with shame so hot it steals his breath. What would Tommy think, if he had seen the doll bent over Roman’s knee, taking each strike of the belt with a gasp and a plea? What would Tommy think, if he knew the doll took pleasure from Roman’s hands and tongue and cock? What would Tommy think, if he knew he let such a slut into his life, his home, his family? 

_When you’re ready to come home, you just show up day or night._

Dick slips into his clothes and wishes he had never been born. 

As he leaves the conference room, a hand wraps around his chest, pulling him tight against the hard wall of Roman’s torso. 

“Be a good boy, Richard,” the man purrs into Dick’s ear. His breath is hot and wet. “Let’s not let Tommy down any more than we already have, understand?”

Dick nods. Fluid seeps between his legs. His body stings. He wants very desperately to get away from this man, this place, this self. He wants very desperately to go home. 

***

He doesn’t close his eyes in the shower anymore. 

At least in his bed at the motel he can wear layers and layers, tee shirts and sweats and socks and crewnecks that give the illusion of safety and security. The heat makes it hard to breathe and harder to sleep, but he can’t take anything off. He refuses to. And he will sleep, eventually, after hours of staring at the ceiling and thinking about nothing and everything at once, all while sweat gathers at the small of his back and behind his knees. At least this discomfort is his choice. At least this time he’s wearing clothes. 

But in the shower, there’s nothing to protect him. His body is bare to the never-ending stream that should be searing, but isn’t. There’s no sting of open cuts or burn of water over his thighs. He doesn’t cry and he doesn’t think. All he does is go through the motions, staring unblinking at the wall, counting down the seconds until he’s clean enough to put on his clothes again.

Call it compartmentalizing, call it disassociation, call it make believe. Dick has gotten good at feeling nothing. 

He scrubs himself raw, then scrubs some more. The back of his thighs scream as the cloth runs over them, but Dick continues anyway, refusing to blink. A sliver of a thought slips through the wall. 

_I wish he used his gun instead._

The taste of gunpowder fades quicker than the lash of his belt. Hurts less too. Dick already has trouble walking after Roman…asks him to meet. At least when Roman sticks a gun down his throat, Dick can close his eyes and pretend he enjoys it, pretend that he wanted it.

Well. He did, didn’t he. Roman calls, and Dick answers. Dick doesn’t protest. Dick doesn’t fight. And in the end, Dick comes too. It feels good.

_Whore._

Dick shuts off the water and steps out of the shower. Then his body freezes. Literally, it feels like. Every part of him runs cold, his limbs lock in place, he’s trapped. 

Someone is knocking on the motel door.

There are three of them at first, short raps that send Dick’s heart leaping into his throat. At once he becomes acutely aware of his nakedness, his vulnerability, the initials carved into his chest. _Whore. Slut. Failure._

_knock knock knock_

_Tommy,_ is his first thought. Then: _Roman._

_He knows that I hate this I didn’t try hard enough he’s gonna kill them he’s gonna kill them all and it will be my fault because I didn’t try hard enough and he knows that I hate this—_

For a second, Dick considers calling Roman. Begging for the man to come over and do whatever he wants. Fuck Dick. Whip him. Stick a gun down his throat and a plug in his ass and strike him until his knees shake. Have him kneel naked on the floor with Roman’s cock in his mouth for hours on end, just because Roman likes a Wayne on his knees, even if Dick is just a knockoff. Dick will do it. Happily. As long as his family stays safe.

_knock knock knock_

_knock knock knock_

_knock knock knock_

Dick hardly dries himself before throwing on boxers, pants, an undershirt, a shirt. The knocking continues, louder and more forceful than before. Something twists deep inside his belly. It feels like a warning. 

_knock knock knock_

Is it Roman on the other side? Does he want more? 

Or worse—is it Tommy? Has he come to tell Dick that he knows how disgusting Dick is? How Dick is not worthy of the Tevis family? How a slut like Dick doesn’t deserve a home to come back to? 

_knock_

_Whore._

_knock_

_Slut._

_knock_

_Failure._

Dick peers through the blinds and sees a shape in the darkness. Too round to be Roman, too squat to be Tommy. He waits for relief and feels only dread. 

_Don’t open the door,_ his instincts scream, and for a second he almost listens. As long as he stays in the motel room, he’ll remain as he is. Nothing worse can reach him here. And maybe one day it will all go away.

Then Dick opens the door, and the unease thickens.

“Ray?” he stammers, when he sees the familiar face. “What—what are you doing here?”

“Crutches! Thank god…” Ray stumbles inside, and nearly crashes into the radiator before righting himself. His face is the picture of anxiety: round, sweating, pale. “You ain’t an easy guy to find. Seen way more a’ this city than I ever wanted to.” 

Dick licks his lips, looks past the man to scan the motel parking lot. His own anxiety begins to push down on his folders, threatening to bring him to the point of collapse. Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong. 

“I…I told Tommy where I’d be staying,” Dick says, an almost-whisper. He steps back into the room, closes the door behind him. “Why didn’t you ask him?”

With a sigh Ray sits down on the bed and dabs his face with a handkerchief. “Well that’s just it,” he replies. “Tommy ain’t available to answer no questions no more.” 

Dick must have misheard him. It’s okay. It’s just a misunderstanding. “W—what?” 

Ray fixes him with a severe look, shakes his head wildly. “You gotta go back, Crutches. Me, I’m in the wind. But Sophia, she’s asking for you, and—and I figured you’d want to say goodbye to Lynette before—before you know—”

He stops talking. 

Dick licks his lips again. A sickness stirs in his chest, arresting his heart and lungs at once. He is so empty, so heavy. _Don’t ask,_ say his instincts, but he can’t help himself. He needs to hear it. 

“Where’s Tommy?” 

***

Tommy is in prison.

Lynette is dead. 

Sophia is alone.

It wasn’t Roman. That’s the worst part of it. It was the law that took them, a half-dozen cops that cared more about ripping apart a family then focusing on what really matters. Didn’t they know that the Tevis family was better than anything Dick deserved? Didn’t they care?

Or maybe that’s exactly why things went down the way they did. Maybe Dick destroys every good thing he touches. 

Imprisoned.

Dead. 

Alone. 

_When you’re ready to come home, you just show up day or night._

Ray is long gone. Dick stands over the bathroom sink, staring at the drain. A bead of sweat trickles down his hairline. His stomach lurches. But he’s thrown up twice already and there’s no bile left to give.

Dick is still staring at the drain. There is nothing else for him to do, no one to go to. He is so profoundly alone. 

At some point the radiator kicks in but he doesn’t feel it. Well. He feels it a little. The brush of warm air over his wet cheeks. Like the moment following a kiss.

 _Failure,_ says the voice in his head. _Failure. Failure._

He stands for a long time, until his cheeks are dry and sticky, until his tongue is sandpaper in his mouth. There’s a painful pressure inside his temples. Was he crying? He must have been crying, but hell if he remembers it. All he can do is stare at the drain until the world is a meaningless amalgamation of shape and color that threatens to swallow him whole. Dick searches his mind for Tommy’s kind smile, Lynette’s praise, Sophia’s bright eyes, but finds only complete, debilitating numbness. 

_Failure. Failure. Failure._

He sees Kori, sees Babs, Bruce, Blockbuster, Catalina—hears gunshots—feels rain—

He sees Tommy rotting in a prison cell—

_Is this guy a prince or what?_

—Lynette rotting in the ground—

_You’re just so good!_

—Sophia institutionalized—

This _is your home now!_

—and everyone is sobbing and dying and knowing all the while that he’s to blame because he was stupid, because he left them alone—

Suddenly he’s tearing at his own body, dragging his nails over whatever skin he can find. Dick digs his fingers into his skin, makes cuts and bruises sing with pain. His pulse grows frantic. He sees red. He pushes harder, scratches deeper, claws at his chest and his arms until every scab is open. Blood peeks through his undershirt and shirt. And it’s not enough, it’s not enough, it’s not enough—

***

Roman lingers in the doorway, a shadow against the ugly yellow light on the opposite end of the motel parking lot. “I must say, Richard,” he says smoothly, “This is a pleasant surprise.”

Dick says nothing. His hands twist over each other, nails digging crescent-shaped cuts into the back of his fingers. He doesn’t want to look at Roman, at his clean-pressed clothes, at the silky black square in his chest pocket. The sight of him makes Dick’s stomach clench and his chest collapse. 

Which is why he keeps looking. He just wants to feel again. 

With a disappointed sigh, Roman steps inside the motel room, casting furtive glances at the stained carpet, the scratched furniture. “I assume you heard the news, then?” he asks. 

Dick’s heart stops as the words cut him open. He opens his mouth to speak but the words evade him, scrambling in his brain as the horror sinks into his core. 

_Today—yesterday—in Gotham—this whole time—_

“Don’t be too upset, son. It was bound to happen sometime. Always does, with these smaller _famiglias._ Like I said—low-life gangsters make for terrible business partners.” Roman chuckles, and the sound has Dick’s body locking tight with sick anticipation. Laughter shouldn’t be that cold. “I warned you, didn’t I?”

“You knew?” Dick asks quietly. “Earlier—when we—you knew?” 

_You whipped me with your belt and Sophia was already gone. I was sucking your cock and Lynette was already dead._ _You came inside me and Tommy was already in prison._

Roman crosses the floor and takes a seat on the bed next to Dick. The smell of his cologne is rich; the smell of his aftershave, stinging. He places a hand at the small of Dick’s back and rubs small circles there. Dick bites back a sob and resists the urge to flinch. 

“This is a good thing,” Roman tells him. His hand travels lower, fingers skirting over the curve of Dick’s ass. “Now you have no need to pretend.”

“Pretend?” 

“Please.” He smirks beneath his mask. “You’re a _good_ boy, Richard. It’s obvious you’ve been wrestling with your conflicting loyalties to me and to _Tommy._ I imagine it’s quite difficult being one man’s dog and another man’s lover.” 

Dick’s breath hitches at the word. “I’m not—” 

“I told you, my boy. There’s no need to keep pretending.” Roman’s free hand brushes a lock of hair away from Dick’s face before settling on his cheek. “You could have chosen to call anyone just now, and yet you call me. Why?” 

_Because I want you to hurt me. Because I deserve to be punished for every god damn thing I’ve done wrong._

The admission lodges itself in his throat, cutting him up from the inside. It won’t come out no matter how hard he tries. 

“I…I don’t know,” Dick says at last. 

“Because you want me, Richard. Don’t try to deny it. You _choose_ to come to me. You chose _all_ of this,” Roman says conversationally, eyes gleaming with something wicked. He keeps rubbing circles on Dick’s back, dipping lower and lower, snaking around the soft bend of his waist as Dick’s heart jumps into his mouth. “Or did I merely imagine you screaming my name?”

_He could have quit at any time…_

Dick curls his fingers into the bedspread as the world blurs and a pressure builds behind his eyes. He takes several long, quiet breaths. Anything to cool the guilt and shame that sets his blood on fire. 

“Tell me what you want,” Roman orders. 

What he wants? 

Dick wants to take it all back. Wants Blockbuster to be alive, wants Catalina to be free, wants Bruce to trust him, wants Babs to see him, wants his friends and family to love him again. He wants Lynette to be alive and smiling, wants Sophia to laugh and dance, wants Tommy to hold him and call him _son—_

“Richard.” Roman takes hold of Dick’s face—not kindly, but not unkindly—and forces him to meet the man’s icy blue eyes. “Tell me. What you want.” 

Dick falls apart. 

“I want to feel,” he chokes out. Tears spill over his eyelids and his face burns and no matter how hard he tries he can’t stop the sob from escaping. He buries his face in his hands, draws his knees into his chest, tries to make himself as small as possible. Maybe he’ll even disappear. 

But no. Dick is still alive and sobbing and somehow he’s aware of Roman’s breath caressing the nape of his neck, the soft pressure of the man’s palm, the tingling sensation where the man’s finger slides down his cheek. _My good boy,_ Roman seems to be saying, and despite it all Dick almost laughs. 

Dick is not _good._ He never deserved the affection, never deserved the praise and the love and the care—

“Oh, Richard,” the mobster murmurs. He leans in close, places a chaste kiss against the underside of Dick’s jaw. “I’m so honored to be entrusted with your pain.” 

Dick is so stupid, so god damn _stupid…_

“Shh,” Roman coos, lifting Dick’s chin and chuckling when Dick looks away to hide his tear-stained face. “Let me help you, Richard. You only need to say yes.” 

_No,_ Dick thinks, skin crawling. 

“Yes,” he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut and hating the pathetic quiver in his voice. Nausea rolls through his torso 

“Yes…?”

“Y—yes, daddy.”

_Whore._

A smirk crosses Roman’s eyes. “My good boy,” he purrs, fingering the buttons of Dick’s shirt. He pops open the first, then the second. Peeling him open like a vivisected specimen. “My good, lovely boy.”

And Roman kisses him.

It’s not rough.

Why isn’t it rough?

_Why won’t he be rough?_

Dick waits with bated breath still as stone as Roman continues to kiss him. Gently, _compassionately._ Any minute now Roman will strip him bare and force him to the floor. Any minute now Roman will mock him, strike him, humiliate him every way he knows how. Any minute now he’ll fuck Dick’s throat or his ass and make it _hurt,_ make him _bleed._

But Roman doesn’t. He kisses Dick slowly, _passionately,_ and undresses him with the same strange, gentle care. “Lift your arms, baby,” he murmurs, and pulls Dick’s bloodied undershirt over his head before kissing him again.

 _Wait,_ Dick thinks, as Roman lies him down on the bed, brushes his fingers lovingly over his cheek. This isn’t what he deserves. Not after he failed to protect Tommy, not after he failed to protect anyone. Dick has a body count. Dick is a _murderer._ He deserves to be hurt, to be _fucked_ until he’s just a doll again. 

Dick doesn’t deserve to be human.

Roman undoes his belt. He makes a show of setting it to the side before lifting Dick’s leg and brushing his lips over the raw skin on his thighs. An involuntary whine escapes Dick’s lips. He begins to tremble. 

“Please,” he whispers. His thigh tingles where Roman kissed him. 

Roman cocks his head to one side. “Please what?” he asks.

“I—I don’t—I need you to make it hurt.” 

“Make what hurt, son?” 

“Me,” Dick whimpers. Tears well over his eyelids; he lets them fall freely down his cheeks. _Weak. Pathetic._ “I need you to—to hurt me.” 

Roman’s eyes meet Dick’s, triumphant. “Oh, Richard,” he says softly, clicking his tongue in disappointment. “You really are a mess.” 

Dick nods, beyond speech. He wants to press his fingers into skin and scratch and claw until the blood stains the mattress. He wants Roman to do horrible things to him. He wants to be a dirty fucking—

***

_Whore._

Roman is flipping him over and digging his nails into Dick’s hips. Bruising. He bites Dick’s ass, Dick’s shoulder. Draws blood and a scream. And Dick rides through the pain, arching his back and crying out as teeth break his skin with a _pop_. But he wants it and he needs it and he has to have it because he’s such a—

_Slut._

Roman is fucking his throat and Dick can’t breathe. There are tears streaming down his face and he _can’t breathe._ There is a hand tugging at his hair and Roman’s cock is gone and he slaps Dick once twice three times before snapping his hips forward and Dick is choking on his length again. And his jaw aches and burns and he sobs and whines and strokes himself because…because… 

_Failure._

Dick isn’t touching himself anymore because his hands are bound behind his back. His shoulders scream at the slightest provocation and his face is stinging and it feels so fucking _good_ to burn. It feels good when Roman kicks his ribs and hisses, _beg for it, bitch._ But apparently Dick doesn’t beg hard enough because the belt is in Roman’s hand again and oh god the first _crack_ has him writhing in delicious pain and oh god he’s such a—

_Whore._

Roman’s hands are around Dick’s throat as he fucks Dick with the ferocity of an animal. Dick holds out for a minute before darkness clouds his vision and he lets out the smallest whine as if to say, _don’t stop, daddy, don’t stop, let me go._ But then the pressure is gone and Dick wakes up choking and bound and bleeding into the mattress. The hand returns. Disappears. It shouldn’t feel good but it feels so good and Dick hates that he’s such a—

_Slut._

Dick didn’t mean to leave his body but he does. Somewhere far away Roman is still fucking the doll. Every so often he slaps it across the face, as if to test if it’s still alive. And it is alive but it wishes it wasn’t. Dick can’t blame it. From his position he sees an ugly, ruined thing, crying and moaning as its face is shoved deeper into the bloody bedspread. Its back is ribbons of raw meat. There are ligature marks around its wrists and there is dried saliva on its face. Roman whispers the most disgusting things in its ear, hot and wet and _filthy,_ and the doll shuts its eyes and takes it. And takes it. And _takes_ it, because it has to, because it’s a—

_Failure._

***

It’s a long time before Roman comes inside the doll. There’s no lingering this time—he lets out a rough sigh and slips out, surveying its heaving body with an ugly satisfaction. An artist admiring his canvas. 

The sudden absence of him has Dick falling back into his body. At once the pain consumes him: his legs and torso are on fire, the tension in his shoulders has him seeing white, humiliation pierces his core. 

Dick is heavy. Dick is tired. Dick is aching and scared and sticky and sore and distressed and _the shame and the shame and the awful relief…_

“What a mess,” Roman mutters, dragging a finger through the ruins of Dick’s back. “What am I going to do with you, hmm?” 

Dick buries his face in the pillow and says nothing. 

Roman’s hand travel’s up and up and up, coming to rest over the back of Dick’s head. He strokes his hair slowly, gently, working the locks from root to tip. “Remember, Richard,” he says softly, “You wanted this. You wanted me.” 

_Whore._

“You’re lucky I’m so willing to take care of you.”

Lucky. Dick doesn’t feel lucky. Not when Tommy is gone and he has no one left, no one except—

Roman’s hand falls away. 

“Don’t leave,” Dick blurts out, and a fresh humiliation crawls over his face. What’s wrong with him? How could he just—

“Oh?” Roman hums as he returns to Dick’s side. His eyes are filled with a disgusting combination of hunger and amusement, the kind of look that has Dick’s stomach lurching and his instincts screaming. Yet Dick doesn’t move. Worse—he goes slack with surrender, letting the man play with his hair and kiss his tear-stained cheeks. “You love this,” Roman mutters, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw. “You love me.” 

And as he lies there, Dick thinks, _maybe I do._

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe he does... or maybe Dick just needs a big, dangerous mercenary to knock some sense into him ;-)


End file.
